The man had been trying for weeks to think of ways to save enough for a bike. Willie was forever harping on about being the only boy he knew that didn’t have a bike, and it would be a grand Christmas present. But no matter what he did or who he asked, nobody had a bicycle for sale or knew where he could get one at a price he could afford. So it was like an answer to a prayer when, clearing out an old shed that had lain unused for some years, he came across the frame of an old Raleigh, left there by some previous cottared man. But further, frantically hopeful searching produced no other parts of the vehicle, full-sized though it was. Jake decided to keep it anyway, for the rest must be lying about somewhere.
Willie himself had meanwhile been telling those of his chums who possessed a bicycle to keep their ears open. ‘If you hear onybody wantin’ to sell a bike, let me ken,’ were his instructions to them. Malcolm Middleton – Malcie to all and sundry – offered to take him round the rubbish dumps on the back of his bike, and all the neighbouring farmyards, which offer Willie instantly accepted.
Thus it was that the two boys could be seen, one pedalling and the other seated on the carrier, making the rounds of the places where they might just see an old bike that somebody had thrown out. Their quest was not entirely fruitless; on one tip they found two wheels, tyres as flat as pancakes .
‘Och, the rubber’s fair perished,’ Malcie exclaimed, ‘they’re nae use.’
Willie was not discouraged. ‘We’ll mebbe get better tyres someplace else,’ he crowed.
And so they took the wheels back and hid them in one of the outhouses he knew his father never used, shoving them under a piece of old tarpaulin covering something at the very back. ‘It’s a frame, Malcie,’ shouted Willie, almost jumping his own height with joy. ‘I never ken’t that was there.’
Over the next few weeks, taking them well into 1932, their pilgrimage spawned most of the other parts Willie needed. The final item eluded them for six further weeks, but at last, on top of a dump they had searched in months earlier, they found the handlebars. The two boys couldn’t get back quickly enough to start assembling their trophies, doing their best to keep their activities hidden from Willie’s mother and father.
Jake, of course, whose own search for parts had come up with nothing more than his initial find, decided that he had wasted his time and would be best to throw it on a tip somewhere. When he went to retrieve it from his outhouse, he was astonished to find a bicycle under construction, but decided to keep the boy’s ploy secret from his wife.
Keeping a lookout for his son going to school the following morning, he called him over to the paling he was repairing. ‘I see you’ve got the makin’s o’ yer bike,’ he began. Willie waited for the row he was sure would come, but his father went on, ‘You’ve done real weel, son, but I think ye’d best let me tighten up the screws and things for you.’
‘Was it you that got the frame?’ At his father’s smiling nod, he added, ‘You see, Dad, I want to be able to say it was just me an’ Malcie Middleton that did it.’
Jake guffawed. ‘Weel, I’m real prood o’ you, lad, but mind an’ tighten every screw as far as it’ll go.’
‘We’ll mak’ sure o’ that, Dad, dinna worry.’
It was a good three weeks before the two boys were satisfied that their creation was roadworthy and started going for cycle runs together. Knowing how reckless her son was, Emily wasn’t too happy about him being let loose on a vehicle he’d made himself, but he was a big laddie now, nearly as big as Jake, so she resolved to stop being over-protective. He wouldn’t listen to any of her fears in any case.
She soon discovered that he was much more amenable to being asked to go to the shop in the village for anything she needed, and was there and back in less than thirty minutes. With little thought to his safety on such a rickety contraption, she sent him on all sorts of errands – although the first time she asked him to take her usual three dozen eggs to the village shop to be sold – the grocer’s van had stopped coming some time ago – she was a wee bit worried about the safety of the eggs. But there had been no complaint from the shop and it became a regular task for Willie every Friday.
She felt strangely pleased with him now. As she observed to Connie one day, ‘What a difference that bike’s made to him. I can depend on him now, for he’s not as daft as he used to be.’
Connie nodded. ‘You were aye too hard on hm. He wasna as bad as you made out.’
‘I suppose you’re right, lass, but … well, a leopard never changes its spots, as it says in the good book. I just wonder, though …’ Shaking her head, she broke off.
Glad of the chance to air her little piece of good news, Connie said, hesitantly, ‘Gordie’s asked me to his house for my supper the morra. He says it was his mother’s idea.’ Emily’s expression made her add, hastily, ‘I think he’s serious about me, Mam, and I’m serious about him.’
‘Are you sure he’s the lad for you, lass?’ Emily had never taken to Gordon Brodie. He was too full of his own importance, and had treated Jake and her like dirt the few times she’d let Connie invite him there. Plus, and it was a big plus, if he was serious about the girl, he’d taken far too long to tell his folk. Still, she mused, if her daughter was truly in love, she was willing to put aside her own feelings.
Connie eyed her mother reflectively. ‘I’ve never thought he was the lad for me, Mam, but nane o’ the other lads have looked twice at me.’
‘You should tell him you’re not wanting him, then. Other lads are maybe scared to ask you out if they think you’re his girl.’
‘You think that’s what it is?’ Connie seemed more cheerful.
The porch door banged open to admit Willie, who flung his satchel down on the floor before coming into the kitchen, at which his mother and sister both cried, ‘Pick that up!’ Bending down with a scowl, he lifted the bag and hung it on the peg on the door.
Heaving a sigh, Emily said firmly, ‘And never mind sitting down. You know fine this is Friday, and you’ve to take the eggs to the shop.’
‘OK, but can I get a piece an’ jam first?’
The two women laughed to each other as they watched him cut a thick slice off the loaf and spread it thickly with Emily’s home-made strawberry jam. Then he went out by the back door, first lifting the basket of eggs which had been sitting on a shelf in the porch, the tackets on his boots making sparks fly from the stone flags on the floor.
Emily turned to Connie again. ‘D’you think Becky’s putting on weight?’
‘I haven’t noticed.’
‘I’ve the feeling she’s expecting.’
‘Ach, Mam, you’re imagining things. Becky doesn’t want any kids, that would spoil her figure.’
‘But it’s not always what you want, is it? I’m sure Jackie wants a family. Most girls are expecting before they can draw breath after the wedding.’
Connie gave a little giggle. ‘Now you’re coming the bag a bit, but I’ll tell you this, I hope I can find a husband quick, or I’ll be past the age for having any bairnies.’
‘Oh, Connie, you’re just a chicken yet.’
‘I’ll be twenty-one in August.’
‘You’ve plenty time yet to have your family. Beenie was near forty-four when she had her Alice. You’ve another twenty years – you might end up with a whole jing-bang of babies.’ God forbid, she added silently.
Rebecca Burns was anything but happy about her pregnancy. The morning sickness she’d dreaded had been worse than she’d imagined, lasting for most of the day sometimes, and she couldn’t bear the thought that her belly would start to grow enormous. Of course, it might put Jackie off her, which would be a blessing, for he kept on asking and she kept on refusing, and that couldn’t go on for ever. He would get fed up of it, and turn to some other girl, not that it would bother her, except he might want to leave her. That would be a proper calamity. She was now part of a fairly well-to-do family, and she didn’t want to lose that security.
If she could get rid of this encumbrance, she would be quite happy to remain as Jackie’s wife, having the wherewithal to buy what she liked and when she liked. She made a trip to Aberdeen at least once a month – Jackie had never complained about it – and that would have to stop if he decided to divorce her. Tom Burns had given them this cottage as a wedding present, so she would likely have to leave, and God knows where she would go. No doubt her parents would take her in, but she didn’t want to go back to scrimping and saving for a year before she could afford to buy a new dress. No, she had better watch her step and keep hold of what she had got.
One thing she could do, though, to get her life back to what it was, get rid of this blasted infant or whatever they called it at this stage. She was just over three months late, so it should be all right. She’d heard about a woman in Tillyburnie that got rid of them for fifty pounds and no questions asked, so she’d go to her. Nobody knew about it anyway, so tongues wouldn’t wag.
Having received the money for the eggs he had taken in, Willie accepted the usual long stick of barley sugar the grocer’s wife always gave him. ‘Ta, Mrs Gill,’ he beamed. ‘See you next Friday.’
With no reason now to go carefully, he swung purposefully on to his steed and rode off, cracking his whip in the air to urge it on. He had repelled several English invaders when it occurred to him to drop in past Malcie Middleton – now working for McIntyre of Wester Burnton – to show him how well the ‘Raleigh’ was doing as a charger, and swerved into the farm road.
There were only two people in the stable yard, Malcie and the old man everybody in the area knew as the Daftie, although some thought that he wasn’t as daft as he made out. He still had an abundant crop of pure white hair, and although he was nissing some of his front teeth, he always wore a wide smile. He was helping the youth to polish the horse brasses, there being a show looming in the very near future. Johnny McIntyre was very proud of his Clydesdales and entered them every year; having already won many second and third prizes for various horses, his heart was set on gathering at least one first.
‘Aye Malcie,’ Willie called.
‘Aye Willie.’ His friend was engrossed in his task, but could still acknowledge the presence of his chum. ‘The bike’s goin’ OK then?’
‘Great. I come along the road like a bird through the air.’
The Daftie looked up now, nodding his approval of the vehicle, then he mumbled, ‘You’re Jake Fowlie’s loon, aye?’
‘Aye.’
‘Your Ma mak’s black puddins, aye?’
‘Aye?’ Willie was puzzled. What did black puddings have to do with anything?
‘McIntyre killed a pig this week.’
‘Oh? So what aboot it?’
‘I saved some o’ the bleed for her.’
‘Oh, aye?’
‘Wait a mintie.’
The elderly man hobbled off and came back within the requested minute carrying a rather chipped white enamel pail. ‘Look,’ he cackled, holding it up to let Willie see inside, ‘Plenty there. Aye?’
The boy knew nothing about this. He loved the black puddings his mother made, but he hadn’t realised that they contained pig’s blood. It wasn’t a happy thought. ‘I suppose so.’
‘Tak’ it an’ gi’e it to yer Ma wi’ my compliments, but mind an’ bring back the pail, or McIntyre’ll gi’e me whatfor.’
Willie, taller now and well on the way to being willowy instead of podgy, lifted the pail, old and battered, but like everything else in the stable and its surrounds, spotlessly clean. ‘I’ll awa’ then, Malcie.’
‘Watch yoursel’, and go easy. We dinna want the bobby to come and tell us to shovel you up aff the road. We wouldna ken which was your bleed an’ which was the pig’s.’
The younger boy joined in the roar of laughter as he steadied the bicycle with his knees until he could get his precious cargo hooked over the handlebars. Keeping his steed upright when all the weight was on one side was quite tricky, but at last he somehow got into a rhythm that answered his problem. Proud of his prowess, he wished that Poopie-Cecil could see him. He was pleased Malcie Middleton was watching as he set off, for he had shared the honour of creating this magnificent mode of transport.
Secure in his belief in himself, Willie fished in his jacket pocket for the stick of barley sugar Mrs Gill had given him, and discovered, to his further delight, that he could steer the bike and its load just as well with one hand as with two, and he sailed along, whistling happily.
Oh, Willie. If either of his grandmothers could have seen him, they would have told him that pride cometh before a fall, but as neither of these good ladies had any idea of what he was doing, he went on his way, considering himself the happiest, and cleverest, laddie in the whole wide world.
Coming to the stony track that led up to the Wester Burnton cottar houses, he stuck his barley sugar in his mouth in order to have both hands free to get round the corner. He took it carefully, making the left turn like a veteran of the road, and after a few precarious moments of wobbling, he picked up his rhythm again. Thankful to have made it into the home stretch, he took hold of his stick of barley sugar again and carried on a little more slowly up the track.
It had to come. There was no doubt about that. A gambling man would have deemed it a dead cert and put his very shirt on it. Willie, though, had no foreboding of impending doom, still whistling tunelessly as he imagined how impressed Malcie Middleton would be to hear how he’d coped with the tricky business of controlling a bike laden with a pail of precious goods.
He had no thought for anything else. He had no eyes for anything but a far-off vision of glory, so that he did not see the large stone thrown up by Mr McIntyre’s tractor which had, only minutes before, come up this same track and had turned right into a field of turnips. All that the boy was aware of was the impact of his wheel against the boulder, of the bicycle coming apart at the seams, as he might have said, and of being catapulted over the drystane dyke on his left that marked the perimeter of the ley field, resting from crops for the second of three years.
Emily Fowlie had an uneasy feeling; not a premonition of some disastrous calamity, more a sense of something that she couldn’t quite put a name to. At first, it was Jake’s wellbeing that troubled her, yet as time passed, her thoughts travelled round the other three members of her family. Had Jackie Burns thrown Becky out for spending too much on clothes? She had warned and warned her younger daughter about that, but Becky always took her own way. But surely she’d have come home if it was anything like that? One thing was certain, of course; she wasn’t pregnant. Whether she had never been, or had been and had got rid of it by some means, was something nobody could be sure about. Had Connie met with an accident at Gordon Brodie’s house? But one of the workers would have come with the news. Finally, her mind turned to her youngest child, her only son, the one who had given her most trouble ever since he came into the world. Willie was always gallous, bashing at things without thinking, but always with the luck of the devil as far as the consequences went.